Fortunately for Jocasta she had already lost control of the spells animating her attack chairs by the time company arrived. Her scalp was sore and she rubbed her hairline resentfully. Luckily the assassin had mostly been aiming to get her out of the way rather than making a true effort to kill her. The only real risk had been when he had thrown her, and Beren had broken her fall.



“I’m fine,” she told Beren after patting herself down to make sure that was more or less true.

“Gods Below, he is dead!” the innkeeper gasped as he reached the door. Bonnie was close behind covering a gasp. Jocasta moved over to the assassin and lifted his head by the hair, the weight of his body pulling it to an extremely unnatural angle. Everyone collectively winced.

“What?” she asked, then dropped the head so it thudded on the floor eliciting another wince from all and sundry.



“It never hurts to check,” she huffed a little defensively.



“You have killed a man! I must summon the ….” the Innkeeper trailed off. Clearly he was about to say watch, and then realized that meant the Mortus Leo would get involved. His face pantomimed an agony of indecision.



“I think,” Jocasta began, “that maybe this is just a robbery gone wrong and we can chalk it up to natural causes?”

“Natural causes?! His neck is broken!” the landlord protested.

“Well, you know, natural in his line of work,” Jocasta amended. The Innkeeper still seemed inclined to argue but Bonnie just shook her head and steered the older man out of the room, shooting a surprisingly effective ‘take care of this mess’ over her shoulder as she went.



“Well that was fun,” Jocasta put in, casting an appreciative glance at the shirtless Beren, the effect slightly marred by the bruise that was spreading from where her knee had winded him during the fall.



“Any idea why someone would want to kill you? He said he was here to kill you specifically. Like what am I? Chopped liver?” she demanded. Beren shook his head in confusion or uncertainty she wasn’t sure.



“Well he is dead so we can’t ask him,” Beren said at last.

“Or can we?” Jocasta asked in a theatrically ghoulish voice.

“What?” Beren asked, brought back to attention by the tone rather than the content of her statement.

“What?” Jocasta repeated blinking her eyes innocently as though she hadn’t just suggested necromancy.

“I guess we should probably search his pockets before we toss him out into an alley? Just incase he has an valuable information on him, or better yet any money?”

Beren crossed his corded arms over his chest, but his thought process couldn't finish as Jocasta spoke. He tried to hide a smile but it failed.

"You're way too cute to be this clever," He told her and shook his head, as if the fact was more of an annoyance than anything. He wasn't agitated, of course, but he finally was able to hide his smile. The sleepiness helped. He knelt down and searched the man's pocket. He found three silver lordlings, which he gave to Jocasta, and a note with an unbroken seal.

"Oh let me see that," Jocasta said, holding her hand out. Beren gave that to her as well, and couldn't find anything else on the corpse except a dirk he kept in his sock, which Beren promptly placed on the desk beside the bed. Jocasta knelt by the body and took a limp arm in her hand, placing his thumb on the seal.

"What are you doing?" Beren asked.

"I had a friend who was in the Black Auction for a bit. He told me how some assassin guilds operated..." she said, and the letter opened as if by magic, just from the touch of the deadman's thumb. Beren didn't seem convinced, as this attacker, while tough, wasn't exactly the caliber of a dreaded assassin.

She opened up the letter, and nodded professionally, before turning it around so Beren might see. In the lamplight, Beren could see the entirety of the page, and it wasn't lost on him that there was nothing on it. He looked past the empty note at Jocasta. "Am I missing something girly?" He asked her, genuinely confused.

"Ooone second," she said, pressing the tip of her tongue on her pointer and then sliding it down Beren's chest swiftly, like one might strike a match. To his surprise, a flame did erupt on her fingertip from the contact. Beren's face flushed in surprise and she gave a wink. "Pretty hot yourself, apparently. Now hold on..."

She held the small flame up to the paper, just behind it. Three seconds came and went until gradually, script began to appear. Jocasta took a deep breathe and read it aloud.

"Once the Eru'Dai is dead, go to the third tree on the path past the statue of Meldarion north of town. Take your payment there, and leave his axe as proof." She reiterated, and then blinked in confusion. "Meldarion I know. The ancient hero. But what is Eru'Dai?"

"That's me. I'm an Eru'Dai," he admitted, and she looked at him quizzically. He shrugged his strong shoulders. "We're sort of a... well not a secret order, exactly. But there aren't many of us left. I don't know how they knew I was one, or how they knew I'm here. Whoever they are..."

"You'll have to tell me more about that later. But for now...we have a reward to get tomorrow."

"If it's not a trap." Beren said, putting his jacket on. He hadn't deigned to put his shirt on, giving him an almost vagabond look. Beren grabbed the corpse and lugged it over his shoulder like it weighed twenty pounds, not two hundred pounds. He carried it out into the hallway, Jocasta following behind. It took only a minute to find a sewer to dump him in, something Beren wasn't comfortable doing, even for an assassin trying to kill him. But he couldn't leave the town with the walls and the closed gates without being discovered and further questioned for the death of a man. Jocasta hugged herself, even wearing her layers, as the night wind whipped.

"Let's start a fire when we get back in," Beren told her, and then yawned. "I'll get back to sleep soon, but we should probably warm up first."

They made it back in, and once they went up the stairs and back in the room, Beren moved the couch and Jocasta started the fire, the crackling flame growing to life in the fireplace. Beren sat down on the couch, and he asked Jocasta to join him. Once she plopped down just beside him, he crossed his legs and arms, watching the flames. He seemed thoughtful, and it took almost a minute for him to start speaking.

"You're really fun. I like hanging out with you." He admitted, and let another few seconds go by as he considered his next words. "But if someone's coming after me, or if there's a mix up between the Master of the town and the Lions and I've pissed off the latter, I don't want you to get caught up in anything, either. So I'm giving you a chance to tell me to go, if you think it's safer. No hard feelings, nothing. Just do what you think is right for you, ok?"

He turned his face to hers, to see her reaction. "I'll just leave, if you tell me to."

Jocasta’s face grew uncharacteristically solem in the firelight as she considered the question. For long seconds she didn’t speak merely staring into the flames. Then she let out a deep sigh.

“I have something to tell you too,” she admitted.



“I am the long lost daughter illigitimate of the King of Andred and Calli Black,” she informed him, spreading her arms portentously as she announced it.

“I was born under and ill fated star and my doom stalks me, my enemies hunt me even now. Whole armies are probably out looking for me, not to mention fair haired heroes determined to save me and carry me off to their castles to…” she cut off as Beren shoved her in exasperation.

“Can you be serious for one minute?!” he demanded.

“Unclear,” Jocasta snickered.

“You could get killed just being near me!” he tried again. Jocasta shrugged nonchalantly at the prospect.



“Please, one assassin shows up and it goes to your head. Its sheer dumb luck he didn’t show up to break my kneecaps for all the money I owe the Black Lotus,” she confided. Beren started slightly.

“Wait? What?” he interjected but she continued speaking as though she hadn’t heard.

“Since I’ve met you, I’ve nearly been ripped apart by a barrow wright, bisected by booby traps, crushed by an avalanche,” she began, counting the points off on her fingers.

“Wait that was your…”



“Molested by Mercenaries, which should count twice for alliteration, and fought off an assassin with enchanted furniture,” she continued. Beren’s frown deepened at the mention of the furniture. Jocasta waved dismissively.

“You were asleep for that bit,” she added helpfully, then paused. “I’m pretty sure there was something else…”



“You were almost beheaded by undead and or eaten by orcs?” Beren suggested.

“Damn, how could I forget about the orcs!” Jocasta exclaimed, snapping her fingers.



“Overall I’d say its been a pretty banner day,” she went on.

“Not to mention I made three silver lordlings,” she concluded, flourishing the coins like a street magician about to pull a trick. She rolled the coins across her knuckles for a moment and then the three coins began to bounce into the air and clank into each other in mock combat, the stamped faces mouthing soundless insults before she snatched them out of the air and stuffed them into a pouch.



“I guess what I’m saying is that I’m not going to let the world's smelliest assassin or the Kitty Litter spoil a good thing. “

Beren looked at her and smiled. For a second it seemed like he was thinking of kissing her, but he didn't. Instead he said. "Thanks..." and let it hang, before pursing his lips. "Then again, now that I know you have student loans, I don't know if I want you sticking around."

"Shut up!" She laughed, hitting him with a pillow.

They talked for the next hour, joking and laughing. Jocasta explained at least some of her situation with her time in the Mythrim Tethir and the Occult Bastion, not to mention the Black Lotus. She had been right, she was probably far more sought after than he was, at least for monetary reasons. Beren's enemies were more martial or diabolic in nature, and none of them would hire an assassin to kill him save one or two. Most wanted to kill him themselves. He explained to her about his order a bit. The Eru'Dai, translated from an ancient text as 'warrior monks' were a sept of fighters and peace-makers that followed the 'One' which Beren thought of as the Evergod. It was a lot more lax than a knightly, dogmatic order. It was wrong to fight unless people were threatened, never kneel before anyone but the one, always speak the truth unless it harmed someone else, and try to do right by others. Pretty sensible things, though a lot of it had been exercises in breathing and martial training and inner peace, which somewhat explained how he could handle crazy situations with focus.

His father had been a well known priest (and still was last he saw him) and his mother had been on the village council (again, still going strong), and while they had allowed Beren to be taught the ways of the Eru'Dai by Master Guan, a hermit who emigrated from Shi'Ran, they mostly wanted it for self-defense to keep him alive amongst the Southland frontier. When he had come of age, his mother had insisted he learn a trade and not go gallivanting out into the wilderness like he was want to do. His father had saved a Dwarf Captain's life years ago and decided to call up a favor to help Beren out and curb his mother's ire. For five years he was sent to live with the stout folk at Thundrim Kadrin, a great honor, where he learned smithing, and when his apprenticeship was over he came home and lived in a village two weeks from his parent's home, working as a smith until it was burned down by marauders one day. By the time he reached that part of the story, both he and Jocasta couldn't remember if he went further. The next thing they knew, the sun peeked through the windows of the room. Jocasta snuggled against Beren, her cheek against his bare chest and her curvaceous form curled up almost on his lap, with his arm around her. The embers in the fire were now low, and Beren had been the one to wake up first this time.

Gently, he lifted her up off of him, trying to ignore her impressive chest draped on his face for the moment it took for him to move her up and over, and he set her on the couch, covering her in the blanket. By the time she woke up, he was dressed, strapped with his armaments, with an apple in his mouth and some hot drinks and breakfast sausage and eggs in a plate for both of them to take their fill of.

Once their bellies were filled, they made their way out of the northern gate of town. They passed by morning workers, farmhands, errand boys, and folks going to get the early sales at the markets. The townhouses were all two storied, with no windows on the first floor. Made sense to Beren, who saw similar accommodations in the Southlands. It was just smart to make sure every home was defensible against attackers, both men and monsters. On the gates, the Dead Lions stood watch in their garbs of black, gazing at them suspiciously as they passed through the open archway.

Once they made it out of town, they trekked north. The woods were thick, but gnarled and mostly dead. Snow littered the ground, but some of it was melting due to the bright sun of the day. Beren walked with his staff out, taking in the scents of the morning. The air was frigid, but the sun felt nice and it would feel better at noon. Thankfully, it seemed like it would be one of the warmer days in recent memory.

"How far do you think it would be?" Jocasta asked him, pulling her coat closer to herself.

"Well, you'd think a statue would be well known. But these lands are so overgrown. We'll probably have to wait until we find an animal path. I doubt they would have left the payment anywhere someone could stumble on it." He reasoned.

Less than an hour later, they turned down a small deer path that Beren had spotted. They stepped lightly and warily, still knowledgeable there were a myriad of dangers in the marches, but the crunching snow and tangled brush were free of beasts and soon they found the statue at the edge of a few boulders and a broken tree.

Meldarion Dragonsbane. He looked larger than life in the morning sun shining on the carved stone. Beren stopped and gazed at the statue for a moment, examining the likeness. He wore his scalemail hauberk and long hair tied in a ferocious ponytail. They say his eyes were the fiercest one could ever look upon. They looked severe here, but he didn't think they could quite capture the feel of the real one. He still seemed formidable, however, standing there eight feet high with his two curved swords.

"It'll be just down this way," Jocasta told him, nudging him. Beren grinned, bumping his hip against hers. She did it back playfully and shared the grin.

"Lets get it, girly."

The initial burst of excitement turned to frustration as Jocasta and Beren poked around the basis of various trees. The overnight dusting of snow hadn’t done them any favors, and figuring out which tree was ‘the third tree’ and what it referenced wasn’t easy. After twenty minutes of fruitless searching Jocasta called a halt and poked around until she found a forked yew branch.

“What are you going to do with that?” Beren asked.

“Watch and learn,” Jocasta told him and then plucked two hairs from Beren’s head.

“Ow!” he complained, rubbing at his scalp. Jocasta made a dismissive gesture and produced the assassins not, carefully wrapping it around the base of the branch and tying it in place with the hairs before inscribing several sigils on the bark with the tip of her thumb.

“There,” she said proudly, holding the stick out horizontal. Before Beren could ask what the stick was for the end began to twitch slightly to the left. Jocasta turned and allowed the soft, almost imperceptible tug to guide her to the base of a gnarled ash tree close to the statue. The tip of the twig pulled down hard and touched the soft packed snow. Jocasta crouched down and began to scrape away the icy cover to reveal loosely packed dirt beneath one humped root. She crowed in excitement.

“Enjoying yourself?” Beren asked with a smile. Jocasta nodded vigorously and dug at the dirt with her hand until she struck something solid. It was a few minutes work to reveal a simple wooden box wrapped in oiled cloth. She sat it on the snow and unwrapped it, examining the box carefully for any traps, arcane or otherwise. Unable to find any but unwilling to think that meant there were none to find, she drew her shortsword and used the tip to open the box from arms length. Inside was a bundle of red silk. She exchanged glances with Beren and then reached in and tugged at the fabric. Coins clinked inside and she lifted it free, spilling a handful of gold coins into the bottom half of the box. Her hand tingled against the silk as she shifted it to reveal a sarong.

“Our assassin would have looked just darling in this,” Jocasta observed dryly, “I bet…” She vanished from existence with a pop of inrushing air, only to rematerialise on a tree branch ten feet above. She let out a squawk of shock, overbalanced and then fell into a snowbank with a thump that shook enough snow from the tree above to fall and cover the hole she had made.

“Owww,” her muffled voice came from beneath the snow, unconsciously initiating Beren’s complaint of a few minutes before.

Beren's snicker at her sarcastic comment on the assassin disappeared as surely as she did when he saw her teleport. For the briefest of moments he thought something awful had happened, but then she fell into the snow and was covered by the whiteness in a large mound. Beren stomped through the snow and began to dig, uncovering her. Jocasta popped out of the mound like a genie, holding the soft crimson fabric up with wonder in her eyes.

"This thing I can work with..." she said, marveling at it.

"Well, at least I know she's ok." He said to himself outloud.

Jocasta took Beren's hand and she was pulled out of the little hole, examining the item like she would an ancient text. He envied her ability to decipher script and artifacts, and Beren actually felt very fulfilled helping her in such things. He wondered what she was looking at, but it was clear there were flows there he simply couldn't see. Beren smiled watching her.

"Well, you did kill him. You can take that, and we can keep the money together since we're going to Iskura together anyway." He told her so she didn't have to worry about him trying to claim it for himself. Her smile to him was brilliant, her eyes trailing back from him to the sarong.

"It can probably fit me, but not wearing all these layers," she said.

"We probably should get going." He said, counting the coins. Strangely they were in Basileon 'Bezants.' There were a score of them, give or take. He counted them as they fell from one hand to the other, clinking as they slid from the second hand back into the container. "Unless we got something else to do. Even in the daylight, we don't know what's out here-"

POOF.

Beren blinked and turned, and saw Jocasta was gone. He opened his mouth to say something, but there was another POOF. A vaguely sweet scent filled the air and what looked like a puff of quickly dissipating smoke was there one moment and then it was gone, and he turned to where he heard it. His nose brushed against Jocasta's, and he flinched back.

She giggled at startling him, and then revved the sarong up and whipped it at her feet again. Once more the smoke popped up and she was gone, before he heard a squawk from above him, clearly the woman having failed at showing up where intended, and she tried to cry out but wasn't fast enough. She fell directly into Beren's lap, driving the air out of him again.

"Oof!" He exhaled, and cleared his throat, blinking. She smiled guiltily and he shook his head, smirking. "This is going to be a continual thing, isn't it?" He asked her tiredly, failing to hide his delight at her having fun.

“You mean me landing in your lap? It does seem to be happening alot,” Jocasta teased before blinking her eyelashes and vanishing in another puff of smoke, only to reappear a few feet away.

“Hey I wonder if I can…” *POOF* she materialized ten feet in the air, fell a few feet and then vanished again reappearing even higher before letting out a squawk and falling into some bushes.

“Were you just trying to fly?” Beren asked as he made his way over to her to make sure she was ok. Jocasta sat up and rubbed her rump, shaking broken twigs from her hair.

“Well, it was worth a try,” she admitted. It turned out focusing on where you were going was pretty difficult when you were in freefall and hadn’t had time to properly get your bearings. The range of the thing seemed to be fairly limited, but it was still an impressive piece of enchanting. Jocasta who had manufactured her fair share of enchanted trinkets over the years wasn’t even sure she would have known where to start, though she was optimistic that she could learn from studying the thing.

“Maybe if I…” she began but Beren held up a hand for silence, freezing Jocasta mid word.

“Someone is coming,” he said urgently, his senses evidently keener than hers when it came to the ways of the outdoors.



“There is no guarantee the mean us any harm,” Jocasta replied, attempting to convince herself as much as Beren.

“No guarantee they aren’t more assassins, or orcs for that matter,” Beren countered. The sound of horses in the distance was evident to Jocasta now as well and she looked around.

“Should we, hide or something?” she suggested but Beren shook his head.

“A blind man could track us in the snow,” he told her, making a gesture to the line of foot prints that terminated in the churned up area that they currently occupied.



“Ok… so do you have a plan?” she asked. Beren looked at her and then looked at the sarong, a slow smile coming to his face.

“Matter of fact, I do.”



Beren was standing in the open when the three horsemen came into view. They wore the tabards of the Leo Mortis and their mounts steamed in the chill air from hard riding. All three wore broad rimmed conical helms and all had crossbows across the pomels of their saddles, and shields slung from their backs. The way they hefted their weapons as they caught sight of Beren dispeled Jocasta’s hopeful theory that they were simply fellow travelers.



“Stop their foreigner,” the leader said in a raspy voice, “we got some questions for you. Don’t much like folk who pick fights with our brothers.”

“I’m not picking a fight with anyone,” Beren protested, but it seemed to make little difference.

“Where is the bitch?” the second rider asked. Beren recognised him as the drunken soldier he had confronted in the tavern, and any hope of a peaceful resolution swiftly drained away. Beren made in indistinct gesture towards the treeline, where a single set of footprints dinted the snow.

“Answering nature's call,” he replied with a helpless shrug. The leader casually pointed his crossbow at Beren.

“Maybe I’ll go answer it too,” the second rider leered, swinging down from his saddle and adjusting his belt lewdly.



*POOF*



“Sounds good,” Jocata said as she appeared on the back of his vacated horse out of thin air, shivering slightly from the covering of snow that had concealed her.

“Wha…” the mercenary began. The leader began to squeeze the trigger of his weapon but the flat of Jocasta’s sword, for once unsheathed, caught his horse a ringing blow across the rump. The horse reared back in shock, dumped its startled rider and bolted off down the scrubby trail at a flat gallop. The third merc tried to wheel around, but Beren bounded to his side, grabbed him by the leg and yanked him out of the saddle, twisting to turn the fall into a throw which hurled the confused lion into his dismounted comrades, sending all three men crashing to the snow in a jangling heap of armor, shields, and chainmail. With considerably more grace than Jocasta could have managed, Beren swung up into the saddle and wheeled the horse around.

“Enjoy the walk boys,” Jocasta waved, and kicked her heels against her steed’s flank, almost spoiling the moment of bravado by half falling out of the saddle as the beast lurched back down the trail. Grasping its neck she pulled herself upright and headed back towards the main road.

"Hey!" One of the men said, running after them and tripping onto his face in the snow. He lifted his head up and raised his fist. "When I find you I'll fucking kill you!"

"You can fucking kiss my ass," Beren said under his breath, and he caught Jocasta grinning, seeing she heard him. He laughed, wheeling his horse toward the road as she followed suit. The beasts cantered a bit, not going too fast so as to catch the dirt and not a snow drift. Beren wasn't the best rider, but he was adequate, and he had an intuition with beasts. Jocasta's horse walked brusquely beside his own, though she didn't seem too agile in the saddle.

"Sometimes my nice facade disappears, you'll have to get used to it," he told her with a faux haughtiness.

"A bad boy streak? You're full of surprises," she said slyly, and they bounced on their saddles down the road before they made it within a five minute walk to town. They left the horses there, not wanting to be charged as horse-thieves. If they had kept them, the Black Lions would have been able to give a true reckoning of wrongs and not just a personal vendetta. Beren hopped off his mount and helped Jocasta off hers. She tucked the sarong in her coat, and they walked back to town, letting the sun warm them as they passed through the gate.

Rounding the next corner, they were a few streets from the inn before guards approached as if by magic on three sides, five men in all with spears. Their eyes were set and their faces grim, save the fifth one that wore a gold cloak, who eyed them appraisingly. Every villager that passed by gave them a wide berth.

"Uh oh," Jocasta said.

"Can I help you, officer?" Beren asked, trying to hide his growing panic. Had they been seen somehow? With the body or the horses? Beren kept still, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. The lead man took his helmet off and rubbed his bald head, before placing it back on.

"You two are coming with us. We have things to speak of at the master's manor." He informed them. Beren glanced at Jocasta, and she could see in his eyes a question of follow or flight. She nodded, and offered her arm to him. He took it, so they could be in close proximity if things went south. Beren really felt like he trusted her, even with only knowing her for a week. Well three technically, but a week seeing her every day.

They walked with the escort towards the northern side of town, where a small wall held a gate of iron bars that opened at the sergeant's call.

As manor houses went it was about as underwhelming as the rest of the town. It might have been the twin of the Crimson Wyrven if that establishment had gotten a shade less neglect over the long years. The most interesting thing about it was the armed men who stood behind the walls, invariable looking tired and ill at ease. There weren’t very many of them either, not compared to their fellows out patrolling the town and certainly not compared to the Leo Mortis. Jocasta didn’t know much about fighting in the abstract, but she had a sense that this probably wasn’t the side one would want to pick if it came to blows.



The were escorted into the main building without fanfare, through a surprisingly neat reception area to a receiving room, where a grim faced man with a gold pin of office sat behind a desk. It was covered with neatly stacked papers, laid down with whatever heavy items were to hand, inkpots, knives, a broken plate and the like. Jocasta couldn’t imagine a place like this bred too much paperwork, but apparently she was wrong in that assumption.

“We didn’t kill anyone!” she blurted nervously at the same time that Beren began, “They started it they tried to…” The both fell silent as the man looked up from his paperwork and arched a bushy eyebrow. He wiped his hands on a handkerchief and set his quill aside folding his hands together and steepling his fingers together.

“Good to know I suppose,” he said in a half amused voice, “but that isn’t why I had you escorted here…”

"Forgive us, we're new to the marches." Beren said, giving a polite bow.

"I can see that," the Master said, placing his fingers together. "By your manner of dress just as well. Are you Izyrian, or perhaps from the eastern continent?"

"No..." Beren said slowly, thinking. "The Southlands. My father is a native there."

The Master blinked in wonder. "Really? That is...truly something." He admitted, considering. Beren's parentage was uncommon but not unheard of, however people of such an ethnicity like he and his father almost never left the shores of the Black Delta or the continent proper. It sounded like a crocodile voluntarily traveling to the far north or through a waterless desert. He shrugged, continuing. "It;s strange times. Unfortunately, I was informed you were bringing me ill news on the caravan under the care of Captain Rohardt and Master Falkenrath."

"We do," Beren said uneasily, glancing at Jocasta. He took a deep breath. "As our journey went, we started losing men. One I know was lost to the wolves, and another three were killed by what I think was a Bwgbher. But I never saw it."

That drew Jocasta's attention. Bwgbher's were dangerous creatures, as silent as a lynx and nearly as big as a bear. The rumors said they were humanoid in shape, hairy with sharp claws, and unimaginably quick. If they wanted to, they could brute force their way through most men, but they preferred killing from behind, silently. Beren wasn't sure he had believed something so large could be so stealthy, but after seeing the deaths of those men, who died without having unsheathed their weapons, he started to believe.

"That accounts for four out of forty," The Master said skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

"Two weeks in, after another few had deserted or were killed by other things, our remaining caravan was caught in a battle. Orcs and Ogres with brands and iron masks fought the dead and weird abominations. I have some notes on them, but the point is, the caravan was destroyed." Jocasta explained, hands opened wide. "Beren here saved my life, and we escaped through the uh, hills, and found our way here."

"And what were you just now doing north of town?" He asked curiously.

"A date. She's really hot. Don't you think so?" Beren asked, and Jocasta placed a hand over her mouth. The Master opened and closed his mouth, and then gave a "Uh yes," as an answer.

"Sir, what is this all about?" Beren asked, more seriously. He crossed his strong arms over his chest. The Master pushed his spectacles closer to his face and sighed.

"The Leo Mortus, these black-clad men. They came here at the cusp of winter, heading to Iskura. It had begun to snow heavily, and even in a blizzard, dread things can roam in the woods. I offered them employment and a place to stay, if they would help protect my town. It was fine for a month, until some of my men were killed by a raid of giants, and a few others died of disease on the walls. Soon the Lions had the greater numbers, and their Captain, a man named Werholt, decided to throw his weight around. I've had to deal with the situation delicately, and he believes I will accomodate him in all he wishes. I was counting on Captain Rohardt to change my fortunes, but now he and his men are apparently dead, may the trinity watch over them."

He leaned back and rubbed his temples. Beren felt sorry for the man, but there was little they could do. Jocasta raised an eyebrow. "Do you have no more friends?" She asked.

"A few in Iskura. Baron Marius is a close friend, but there's so much snow, and I can't spare any more men here to send him a letter."

Beren shrugged. "Well we were planning on leaving in a day or so anyway. We can take it." He offered, and looked at Jocasta. She shrugged. The Master looked at them, and if there had been music it would have stopped.

"Y-You would?"

"Of course," Jocasta agreed, so relived to not be facing charges of murder, horse theft, public indecency, or consorting with ye olde power of darkness that she was willing to agree to just about anything.

"We are going to Iskura anyway as we have made no secret of," she continued. It wasn't a secret though she honestly couldn't remember if they had actually mentioned it to anyone. The Master nodded his head thoughtfully, apparently considering this happy circumstance and trying to decide if he could trust them.

"Well judging from the horses you rode in on..." he began.

"Allegedly rode in on," Jocasta interjected, brushing clandestinely at a horse hair that was stuck to the gray fabric of her trousers. The Master gave her a long suffering look.

"Allegedly rode in on, you are no friends of the Leo Mortis. It seems I have to take what chances fate deals me," he sighed before reaching up and lifting a piece of paper. He dipped his quill and added a quick post script before sprinkling sand and blowing softly to finish drying it.

"I've asked Marius to give you a few coins for your troubles when you get there, I've no reason to think he won't do so," he said, rolling the paper and sealing it with some wax from a candle and a press of a seal. He passed it to Beren, evidently thinking better of entrusting it to the flighty scholar.

"If I can give you two pieces of advice," he suggested and, hearing no objection, went on. "Get out of town before your date crashers get back, if I try to protect you it might be just the provocation they need to seize control of the town." Jocasta nodded. That only made sense, though she had a stop to make before they left.

"What was the second piece of advice?" Beren asked solicitously.

"Keep her nose out of trouble and for goodness sake dont let the common folk know you are poking around old ruins, one apocalypse is enough for the year."

___

The lunch rush was just beginning as they reached the Crimson Wyrven. The smell of roasting pork was strong and the tables were beginning to fill up. Beren kept looking over his shoulder, heedful of the Master's advice that it was better to be gone and soon, than to linger.

"Bonnie!" Jocasta called waving the bar maid over. The beautiful young woman trotted over, a plate of empty mugs balanced on one hand.

"You are still in town?" she asked, glancing around nervously for any sign of Leo Mortis interest. It seemed the news of their animosity traveled fast.

"Just about to go," Jocasta assured her, and then reached into her pouch and withdrew the bottle she had stolen from the kitchen the night before. Shiny lead foil had been wrapped around it and soddered around the neck.

"I made this for you," Jocasta said proudly. Bonnie narrowed her eyes.

"You stole it you mean," she objected in here screeching voice but peered at it in interest.

"Take a drink," Jocasta suggested. Bonnie opened her mouth to object, but then shrugged and pulled the stopper free. She took a small sip, frowned to find it contained only water and then took another drink.

"You stole our vodka and replaced it with water?" she asked. Beren's mouth dropped open. Bonnie's voice sounded as clear and lovely as a bell.

"Something like that," Jocasta said with a grin, and then turned and hurried for the door.

"Wait! How did you..." Beren asked, but Jocasta continued to push him out of the door. "No, how did you do that!?" But the door closed behind them.

Beren and Jocasta stumbled out onto the street road, Jocasta shushing Beren for a second to halt his questioning. The last day or so he had worn his torn jacket and the red cloak to keep himself warm, meanwhile Jocasta had been busy. She ushered him to follow her to the side of the building, and then whipped out the Sarong. Beren tilted his head as he watched her, note entirely sure what she was doing. The woman displayed it out like he was a bull about to charge at a Dre Costa 'run of the bulls,' but then when she whipped it away, there wasn't some trap, but his jacket. His fixed jacket!

"Oh wow..." He said, taking it in his hands. The seam was not even noticable. "Thank you Jo. I don't know what to say except thanks."

"The least I can do," she reasoned, trying not to milk it with someone as genuine as Beren. "Now let's hit the road before we get stopped by those black cloak ass-hats."

Beren put the jacket on and placed his cloak inside of his pack, and the two set off, trying to keep their heads down and their feet moving until they made it out of town. They had been given some provisions by the Master of the Town, and with the money they had earned, even considering the expenses, they could live in Iskura fairly comfortably for a good few weeks if they didn't needlessly spend. Hopefully they could find a means to get more money by that point.

It was just now noon-time, and then sun was at its height. The next few hours would be the warmest and the best conditions for walking, and so they made the most of it. Beren kept his staff in his hand and kept himself relaxed, his eyes would be peeled once they got a bit further from Helmguart.

"How long is it to Iskura?" Jocasta asked. "It didn't look that far in my map, but I lost that in the caravan. Not that it was wholly accurate, either."

"I think about forty...forty five miles." Beren answered, thinking about it. "So about three days of walking if we keep a good pace. Though we might want to stop whenever we find a good place to rest for a night. This won't be like the caravan with the covered wagons or the Inn, or even the draugr tombs. It'll be cold as hell and things could be watching us."

"You know how to butter a girl up," she quipped with a laugh, though there was a slight trepidation in it. Beren smiled, somewhat guiltily, though it turned sly.

"Well girly, what would you like to talk about?"

“... and so when the third Thing broke up the twelve chieftains agreed to rebel against the Sorcerer King of Angerack, except for Kalavis who was secretly in league with him. Or so the legend says anyway most of that comes from an inscription found on the Stone of Tarn which isn’t corroborated in the …” Jocasta continued talking with an excited animation which hadn’t diminished in her nearly two hour long monologue. Beren nodded along, glassy eyes, making the occasional ‘uh-huh’ and ‘hmmm’ during the rare moments she appeared to stop to take a breath. The wind was picking up as the day wore on, and the clear sky of the morning was rapidly clouding. The road to Iskura lay in a shallow valley flanked on both side by modest hills. The slight difference in topography tended to channel the winds, which kept the road open for a month or so longer than would be the case if it were in the open. Even so, with winter deepening, it wouldn’t be long before the road was passable only by sleds or with snow shoes.

“Anyway, so I don’t think that Kalavis was…” Further discussion was cut off by a weird warbling cry that echoed from the hills. Black birds burst from the forest off to their left, cawing and clawing at the air as they beat their retreat.

“What was that?” Jocasta asked, resting her hand on her shortsword. Beren was scanning the woods, though he didn’t seem to be unduly alarmed.

“Qwarath,” Beren replied tightly as he resumed his walk, eyes troubled.

“Seriously?!” Jocasta asked, her eyes brightening all but hoping up and down with excitement. Beren gave her a sidelong glance.

“The Qwararth? The troll Qwarath?” she pressed. Beren shifted uneasily, more disturbed by her enthusiasm than by the eerie roar.

“Maybe,” he temporized, “there aren’t many trolls left, on account of the fact that they maintain huge ranges. A single troll will range over a couple of hundred miles. This is kind of far south for Qwarath, but if another had moved in I’d have heard about it.”

“Is it true he is looking for some ancient artifact?” Jocasta asked. Trolls were functionally immortal and famous trolls tended to feature in the legends as boey men and heels. Qwarath was often said to be searching the lands for something, though what exactly varied from story to story. Beren gave her a guarded look as though trying to decide something.



“What?” she asked, planting fists on her hips, “spill.” Beren shrugged his shoulders.

“The Dwarves say that back during the last age Thurgrim Hamerson, the greatest dwarven rune caller of his age, snuck into Qwarath’s horde in the Mountains of Hraflir. Qwarath confronted him but Thrugrim claimed he came only to gaze upon Qwarath’s horde, so great was it rumored to be that it was his wish to see it before he died. Qwarath agreed that he would show it to Thrugim, but that once he had seen it, Qwarath would kill him. Thrugrim paused at each gem and wonderous item, praising its every minute detail. It took so long that eventually Qwarath grew tired and fell to slumber, at which point the rune caller stole a gemstone of tremendous power and fled,” Beren related. Jocasta listened in rapt attention.

“Why didn’t he kill him and take the rest of the horde?” Jocasta asked, engaged with the tale.

“Some say Thrugrim didn’t want to transgress against guest rite, some say that Qwarath had invoked the Trollish gods and lain might spells across his horde so that the very mountain would collapse on it in the event of his death,” Beren replied.

“What do you think?” Jocasta asked.

“I think that we should probably focus on not being eaten by a hungry troll,” he replied dryly.

"That sounds like a plan." She said. The roar had come from the northwest, and luckily the road curved eastward, but any beast as smart as an Arch-Troll would know where the road was. Beren didn't want to put too much thought into why Qwarath was roaring, but either way it didn't bode well. Lesser trolls weren't common but not rare in the mountains, but Arch-Trolls were like demons. If you found one, you likely didn't survive the encounter.

They started to move, Beren trying to think back on encounters he had with trolls. The Monk had met two in his life. He had never killed one though. They stood fully nine feet in height with rock-like scales on their upper body and simian arms with strength beyond human capability. Easily controlled by how dim-witted they were, they were vicious and often hungry.

As he thought, a crossbow clicked, and a quarrel shot through the flap of Beren's jacket, punching a hole and leaving a slit in the thick fabric. Beren blinked, lifting the edge of it up and sliding a finger through it.
"Hey! Why do people keep fucking with my favorite jacket!"

"We'll do a lot more than that," a voice said, and both of the travelers turned back to see men approaching. Donning cloaks as black as death, golden and white lions were carved on their tabards. Beren saw there were twenty men, all wielding crossbows with their swords at their hips. At least fifteen of them aimed at the two, and their accuracy only became more assured the closer they got.

"Don't even think on running." The front man said, a man in his early forties. He had a somewhat handsome face, though his sneer detracted from it. He had long blonde hair and goatee, and he carried himself like a swordsman. He did not hold a crossbow, but instead had a wicked mace in one hand, bouncing the haft on his shoulder like it was a cudgel.

"You Werholdt?" Beren asked them, now standing around ten meters from one another.

"Yep. And you're an Eru'Dai," he said matter-of-factly. "Didn't think I'd ever meet one of you. We could use a man like you, and a woman like her."

"I'm right here, fellas." She said, waving her hands to let them know she wasn't inanimate.

"Yes, you are, Jocasta." He said, and Beren raised an eyebrow at the name drop. "We did some digging. You owe a lot of money. You serve my company well and maybe do some...extracurricular activites for us and I'll help you out on that score. And you, Eru'Dai... you'll be paid well for your services."

"Do you have that sarong ready?" Beren whispered.

"Yeah, but it won't work for both of us I don't think," she cautioned.

"Just use it anyway. I'll be fine." He assured her. Jocasta was skeptical, but instead stepped forward, waving the sarong like a flag, one foot out and the other back like she was going to perform some acrobatic trick.

"Alright boys, we give up! But let's give you an encore," she said, sliding the sarong down dramatically. Once the cloth passed her form, it shrouded it and she disappeared before their very eyes. Beren took that cue to get lost, and he simply sprang upwards, grabbing a tree branch and using his rock-hard abdominal muscles to swing his legs up and disappear into the thick canopy above.

"Find them!" Werholdt cried, waving his hand angrily.

There were wizard and witches who could hurl fire from their fingertips, or call lighting down from clear sky to smite their enemies. Jocasta had never had much a knack for battle magic, it took alot of time, training and focus that always seemed better spent on running away. Sigilry, enchantments, and alchemy were where her modest talents lay, but her greatest talent was that she always thought outside the box. As she reappeared behind the line of mercenaries she was already reaching into her pouch.

“Don’t think that your tricks will save you, you think we are without wizards?” Verholt shouted, glancing towards one of the mercenaries who was already muttering and gesturing. Adjusting her aim to the handily pointed out mage she pulled a glass orb from her pouch and hurled it at the mans head. Werholdt swatted it aside with his shield instinctively. The glass exploded and greenish gas bloomed out of it like a lump of chalk hit by a hammer.

“Sorr…ry!” Jocasta concluded, reappearing by the treeline before the last syllable left her lips. The mage was shouting and retching, trying desperately to rub at his eyes. Werholdt was not much better, staggering away from the essence of skunk she had just doused them with. A pair of crossbow bolts whisked past her, close enough to pluck at her cloak. She let out an eep and vanished again, more by accident then design, appearing back behind the treeline. More crossbow bolts crashed through the trees, aimed more or less blindly, but no less lethal for that. Of Beren there was no sign, but she suspected she had sown enough confusion with her trick that he had been able to make it to the treeline on the opposite side of the road.



“Kill them! Kill them!” one of the mercenaries was shouting, which instruction did not predispose her to wait around while they pulled themselves together. More bolts whistled passed and she belatedly realized that useful as it was, a bright red sarong wasn’t exactly the best choice for blending into a snow dusted forest. She turned and ran deeper into the woods, each time she reached a tree or ticket that blocked her path she flickered through it, covering ground far faster than her pursuers could manage. The sounds of pursuit died away and she turned in what she thought was the direction of the road, instead she came across a small gulley with a partially frozen stream at the bottom. She clambered down the side and skipped across the icy rocks to the other side without incident. No road to be found and no Beren either. She must have gotten turned around at some point during her flight. She considered her options. She pulled a small brass sphere from a pouch and hung the charm around her neck. An intricate map was etched into its surface, made by a serf who had never left his masters estate in Vrettonia. Scrying attempts would invariably report the wearer as ‘by the windmill’ or ‘in the old trout pond’ somewhere far to the south. That would prevent the now skunk smelling mage from finding her, in the event he was able to work a spell and he had something of hers he could use to work it. Beren didn’t have any such protection however and it seemed reasonable that if he couldn’t find her he might try and find her companion.



“Hrmm,” she pondered, then knelt down by the side of the stream and scraped up a double handful of half frozen mud. She pulled one of the coins the Master had given them from her pouch and kneaded the mud around it into a roughly humanoid shape, then used a couple of dried berries from her pouch to fashion crude eyes before picking up a twig and making a number of small markings in the compacted mud. A clay poppet with ridiculously chiseled abs stood up and brandished a miniature axe made of a twig and a small shard of river stone. It took a couple of steps and planted itself between here and the way she had come as though ready to defend her from an army of giant sized mercenaries.

“Oh knock it off,” she scolded the miniature, then made a gesture along the river bank.

“Thata way,” she encouraged. The poppet gave her a disapproving look.



“I have a plan here Berry-en, so beat it,” she told the thing. It shrugged helplessly and then began to run along the riverbank in what she hoped was a more or less random direction. Tracking spells now thoroughly confused she looked around for landmarks and discovered she was, indeed, in a forest. This less than helpful datum established, she set off down the gully in the opposite direction to her decoy.

Crossbow's clicked, quarrels scything through the air mere feet from Beren's form. He leaped and swung where he could, uninhibited by the snow like his pursuers but still slowed from having to navigate through the trees. These coniferous trees kept their leaves all year round, so it gave him a bit of cover even if it detracted from his visibility. From one branch to the other he leaped, men's voices raised up from behind him. Even as he caught another branch, a quarrel struck the wood just beside his hand, and the branch broke with a snap like lightning.

He didn't have time to curse, only plummeted a dozen feet to the ground and hit the snow with a grunt. Leaves and smaller bits of wood fell on him like a blanket, but after a mere moment he pushed himself up like a leaping dolphin out of the surf. Beren shook his head and brushed the twigs out of his thick, dark hair and gauged his bearings. Checking his east, he saw a handful of men twenty meters away and closing.

He decided not to get back in the tree, knowing it was slowing him down more than anything. Instead he turned and ran on foot, leaping over snow banks and dodging roots and dead brush, kicking off trees to do unexpected turns as he fled. After another two quarrels zipped past him, a last missile embedded itself in his jacket just where his cloak had been rolled up. That was lucky, but he still groaned at the hole in his jacket. He growled and continued to run before hitting the sloping decline of a hillock, leading down to a small clearing in the trees. Beren hopped down it and looked around for an exit. He saw the statue of Meldarion to the north through a copse of conifers, still gleaming in the sunlight.

He took that as as good a sign as any he couldn't keep running.

Initially he had fled so they could focus on his flight and not Jocasta's disappearance, but he needed to link up with her, and he hadn't yet seen any sign of her. Beren turned around, planting his feet in the ground. All around him were trees, but none stood between him and the small slope across the flat clearing. The lack of trees meant the sun had touched the ground more, making the snow scarce.

Beren stripped himself of his jacket, tossing it to his right. The powerfully built man wore a navy-blue undershirt and a maroon vest over it, with a sash belt that matched his under shirt and earthly colored trousers that almost seemed like an aradian savran, but was distinctly more practical. His muscled arms were exposed along with his neck and face, but he had freedom of movement. It was frigid out, but it was the hottest part of the day for the next few hours. The sun kissed his tanned skin as he extended his arms to gather his breath, giving his form a distinctive brass quality.

The first two men broke the tree line, both pale-skinned and blue eyed. Their crossbows having been discarded, much like what Beren expected. He wasn't very learned with projectile weapons, but dwarves made extensive use of crossbows. Even with pulleys or footguards, they were a bitch to load and were heavy to lug around. They wouldn't have caught him with those weapons. Instead they drew their schiavona's, black guards and steel that glinted in the sun.

"Given up, have you?" One asked, both sliding down the small incline. "We don't want to have to kill you, farm boy."

Beren's concentration broke, and he blinked, flabbergasted. "I'm not a farm boy..." He said incredulously, and pointed a finger at the one who spoke. "Wait, do you...do you think I'm a cliche!?"

"Doesn't matter to me," the second one added.

"Aye, come with us and you can be a Lion. Or we kill you here."

Beren took the staff he had lain down in his hand and began to twirl it before him, right to left, letting the swing of the pole casually sweep the snow before him, making a visible line in the mud. Some of the more dogmatic people in his order felt it was not right to ever fight, even to defend oneself. But even if Beren adhered to that, if he died, Jocasta would be out there alone. He wasn't going to let that happen.

"Cross that line and someone will die," Beren warned them. Unfortunately, they didn't have a chance to answer before a third man showed up, sliding down the small hill to the level ground. The first two looked at one another and grinned, before they advanced on Beren, swords out and legs moving in rhythmic patterns. The third Lion in the middle, they made a semi-circle before him and stepped past the line, and Beren knew there was no backing out.

Had someone been near in the trees, they could have heard the clang of steel and the clack of iron-studded wood. The three men gave swift thrusts and small, savage cuts. Beren stepped left to right, trying to get the three to get in one another's way. His staff was a blur, wacking the swords aside but giving ground. Two stabbed at him, his staff blocking both swords simultaneously as he stepped over the third sword's thrust, stomping his booted foot on the blade to disarm the middle attacker. The center lion cried out from the pinch of his hand in the basket-hilt, but Beren's foot hit him just under the jaw. He fell back, blood pouring out of his mouth from a bitten tongue.

Beren leaped to the left, dodging a sword blow, redirecting a stab in mid air with his staff. He landed in a small skid, twisting his staff under and over the blade and shoving it over the Lion's arm to smack him in the head. He reeled back, but swiped a backhanded cut as he fell back. Beren ducked, but he took a cut from the advancing Lion, tearing a deep slash across his arm. The pain flashed, but he didn't let the warm blood stop him from reacting. Even as the last lion reared his schiavona back for a stab to his midsection, Beren shoved the midsection of his staff into the man's head, staggering him.

Another fourth Lion reached the tree line even as Beren leg swept the third lion, and the first two were getting up at that point. He knew he couldn't face those odds, and though he felt regret for it, he stepped forward and stomped his boot on the fallen mercenary's neck, crushing his wind pipe. The other two ran at him, cutting from both side, sending Beren ducking and dodging and riposting where he could, the two drawing him back toward the base of an oak tree. They worked well in unison, clearly having been trained to fight together.

He was in trouble, but even as the third reached them, Beren saw something that could help when he glanced upwards. The monk leaped back and kicked the oak tree with all his strength, the base of the tree shuddering. Heaps of snow fell on the men just as they were about to finish him off, sending them sliding to the ground in a heap. Beren kicked off the tree and drew his axe, and even though he felt it was almost tantamount to murder, he performed his bloody work as they lay there dazed, and then he ran off, back toward the road, hoping to find Jocasta somewhere behind the Lion's lines.

The light was begining to fade when Jocasta admitted the obvious. She had absolutely no idea where she was. She climbed over a low woodfall and half climbed half slid down the embankment on the other side into another of the shallow gullies that seemed to ripple the woodlands. A crust of ice coated the bottom of the shallow depression with a scattering of snow, a few hardy snow berries thrust from between the rocks but Jocasta didn't know if they were edible. With Berry-en confusing any magical attempts the Lion's might use to track him, Beren would be safe but that did mean that she couldn't use her own arts to find him. She had a vauge plan that she should head towards Iskura. That was a laudible goal, but she had no idea where it was other than to the north. Which would have been useful information if she had any idea which direction north might be.

"You have a Campari crystal magicometer but no compass," she rebuked herself bitterly, blowing a leaf out of her hair. Her mind was about to turn itself to the problem of finding some kind of shelter for the night when she heard something crash through the undergrowth ahead of her. She froze in position and watched in horror as something roughly the size of a carriage crashed into the other end of the gully. It was misshapen, like a bear whose front arms were grotesquely long and covered in a long shaggy fur. It's jaw jutted out pugnatiously and its flat hairless face held eyes that glowed an angry green. It moved in an odd three limbed lope, both legs and one long arm, the other arm holding a club that looked to be most of an adolecent oak tree. It snartled something in a beastial language and then smashed its club into the ice, sending dirt and ice spraying in all directions.

Jocasta froze in place, her blood running cold. The thing glanced down the gulch, and for a moment its eyes slid over her. A sense of relief washed over her for about a second before the eyes swiviled back and pinned her in place. They narrowed and burned with brighter intensity. She had no doubt she had just come face to face with the arch-troll Qwarath.

"Shit," Jocasta said. The beast at the end of the gully let out a roar and leaped forward with shocking speed. Jocasta stood frozen in place as death rushed down on her. At the very last minute, as the club raised above her, instinct finally kicked in. She dived between the things three limbs, tumbling awkwardly and coming up on her feet before scrambling up the side of the gully. Qwarath spun and charged after her as Jocasta had hoped, while capable of a prodigious turn of speed, the strange gait did not lend itself to rapid turns. She made it to the treeline before the beast caught up with her, howling and frothing at the mouth. The stink of the thing was incredible, liters of stale sweat and dead animals mixed with sweat and something metallic. Jocasta ducked behind a tree as the troll swung his club. It hammered the trunk with a spray of bark and a delgue of snow from the upper branches. She danced back around another tree as Qwarath tried to grab her, long arm seeming as liquid as a snake. She dodged sideways, wishing she had time to draw her sword but unable to spare that much concentration.

"Diiiiie," the troll howled, spraying spittle in a wide cone. That word reminded her that this wasn't just some mindless beast.

"Wait!" she shouted, skipping back as the club whistled over her head, shattering a sappling into leaves and debris. She tried to duck behind the next tree but the troll was ready for it. He caught her in his free paw and lifted her up off the ground, fingers squeezing tightly.

"Killlll!" Qwarath roared.

"I know where Thurgrim Hamerson is!" she screamed. The troll seemed to freeze and one of its eyes bugged out enermously. It jumped up and down, dumping tons of snow across several acres as it shook the ground before pounding the earth with its clove in good measure.

"You tell Qwarath! You tell!" the beast howled. Jocasta wished she could claim she passed out as part of some clever strategem, but the truth was the troll was just squeezing her so hard she couldn't breathe. In any case, darkness closed in.

Beren trekked down a low slope into a gully, distastefully noticing the sloshing muck at its center. Vainly he tried to keep his feet out of the soup of ice and mud, but he just thanked God he wore high boots, tightly tied. Finding a rock, he planted a foot on it and launched himself nimbly across the expanse before clambering up the next slope, grabbing a root as a hand-hold. He felt small bits of pressure upon his jacket sleeve as gnarled twigs and limbs groped at his form, leaves getting tangled in his thick mane of dark hair.

He almost laughed, at a rare moment of self awareness. Nothing he ever did seemed to turn out simply. Khardos asking a boon of him to visit a gravesight should have been easy, even with the dangers of the Marches in mind. Instead, here he was, having survived a myriad of dangers only to have pissed off a skilled mercenary company wanting his head, and to top it all off, he had to find Jocasta. He prayed she was safe, but if the tremendous roar from earlier was any indication, there was more than Dead Lions lurking the brush.

Hauling himself up, he crouched on the hard earth, momentarily cloaked by the brambles. He could have sworn he heard something, his form freezing as surely as the mountain stone, save for his searching, dark eyes. Green, brown, white, and grey filled his vision, but still a sound grew louder. Suddenly the grey began to shift and move, and he looked down the next gully to see a pale, iron colored mass of a shape ascending out of it. Vaguely man-shaped with simian proportions and a grotesque face of primitive countenance, he recognized it as a troll, and as it rose two things became evident.

It was a head taller than most of its foul kin, and to Beren's horror, Jocasta's limp form was in its grasp.

He felt a weird sense of despair and confusion. If Jocasta was dead, he knew he still had to do what he was bid. It changed his mission little, and he had lost friends before. In normal circumstances he would go after the troll and bury his friend properly or die in the attempt. But he didn't feel rage at the moment, just weakness. it felt different than losing a normal companion, but the same pain was still there. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly through his nose, centering himself. Once he opened his eyes again, they shined like polished brass. He had never slain an Arch-Troll, but troll-slaying was a known skill amongst Dwarven-kind, and he had been taught by some of the best.

He followed Qwarath to its lair.

---

Jocasta's world would come back gradually, and save for the aching in her torso and the pins and needles of sleeping limbs, she was alive and relatively fine. Her first sensation was the hard floor of stone she lay upon, and the awkward angle of her back. She had been placed down on a cavern floor scattered with bones, some rabbit and others that could be from other trolls. A pale light shined in from above, in some carved opening that shined just on Jocasta's spot. As she looked around, she saw skaldic statues of bearded men gazing at her with judgemental visages and painted like they bore the trappings of old thanes.

The cavern was ruined and broken, rubble and stones piled as if some great calamity had passed through it. But it once certainly was made by skilled hands. Right angles teased at her vision and pillars rose to frame the rough chamber she found herself in. The floor her fingers pressed against still had the creases of tiles. The light kissing her skin wasn't warm, but the wind and cold of the outside world was somewhat buffered from the shelter.

Behind her loomed a great form, raising up from the shadows. As she felt its presence, it smiled. It's mouth was wider than a man's of similar proportions would be, and it made use of that fact to give an unsettling grin.

"You tell..."

---

Beren had tracked the beast for the good part of two hours, and as he did so he found Qwarath shielding Jocasta's limp form from anything that might kill her like jagged trees or sharp stones. The thing wouldn't do that if she were dead, and it lent strength to his limbs and gave him a hope he had nearly forgotten. At the edge of a thick expanse of trees, a great tor lifted out of the ground with an open maw large enough to accommodate a troll's bulk. The land had reclaimed what it has once been, and he might have missed it had Beren seen the location from anywhere save the face of the cavern. An old spear lay sticking out of the ground with a weathered cloth whipping in the wind just beside it. Qwarath lumbered in with its squat legs.

He counted to thirty, and then followed the arch-troll within, thankful for the lack of wind but heightened in anxiety from the tight quarters. The tunnel was low for a troll but comfortable for one of man height, gradually opening up to a wider cave with overturned tables of stone and statues of old figures of heroic legend. To his surprise, the walls still had remnants of a wooden construction, though now there was just as much stone as timber. A wash-bin reinforced with iron was shattered and overturned, now rotting from the long years.

Beren found a broken stairway at the lip of the tunnel, leading into a large chamber. He didn't trust it, and so took the slope to the left, sliding down the incline as silently as he could as the troll grunted and spoke to itself in a guttural tongue. Beren's slide was halted by a large stone he caught, and then he rolled behind an overturned table, getting to his feet and peering out to see Qwarath having placed Jocasta on a pedestal in the midst of a gloomy light from above.

His throat tightened when he saw Jocasta stirring, and he felt an elation he hadn't expected.

"You tell..." Qwarath said wickedly, a green light in its eyes. She gave a guilty smiled, and then tried to bolt a moment later. It caged Jocasta from scrambling away with its massive arm, bear-like claws hitting the ground just beyond where she crawled to, keeping her there like a cage door shutting. The only luck in that act was Jocasta glancing between the clawed fingers and seeing Beren's face in the distance, placing a finger to his lips. He gave her a wink, and slid back behind the table.

Jocasta tried not to look at Beren. That wasn't difficult seeing several hundred pounds of angry troll actively blocked her view. The cavern they were in was only an antechamber to the troll's true lair. On one side the floor dropped vertiginously into a chasm that plunged away far below. The distant roar of what might have been water or might have been wind could be hard from that black abyss.

"Tell!" the Qwarath roared, pounding his fist against the ground in frustration and spraying up pieces of crushed bone. Blood began to run from the troll's paw but other than licking at the minor wounds with his improbably long tongue he seemed to pay it no mind.

"Ok, ok, I'll tell," Jocasta said hurriedly, sucking in air through her bruised lungs. She searched her mind for some kind of lie that would prolong her life a few minutes.

"Thurgim Hammerson is dead, but the thing he stole from you was lain in his tomb," she said quickly. The ledgend was a very old one and while she had no idea how long dwarves lived, she supposed it wasn't thousands of years.

"Deeeaadd," Qwarath growled. He hopped around in an agitated circle, fortunately not noticing Beren.

"Where is this tomb she-man!" the troll demanded, then lifted his muzzle to the roof and howeled something that sounded like 'Grup' in a voice so loud it shook dust from the ceiling. It was only then Jocasta realized that the blood and the hopping hadn't simply been animal agitation. A presence took form in the room between Jocasta and Qwarath. It was shadowy and indistinct, but massive and vaguely troll shaped. Jocasta could taste the sent of bison on the air, feel the blood of the great beast in her mouth, hear the soft rustle of grass that camouflaged a troll before it pounced for the kill.

"Grup!" Qwarath roared, and two coals of fire seemed to spring into being in the head of the shadowy thing. It reared into immensity, roaring so loud that the force of it physically knocked Jocasta to the ground. It was Grup, the Troll God of the Hunt. It wasn't really the God, it was a shadow of the real entity, an avatar summoned to answer the priests call. At least Jocasta very much hoped that was the case. Even the shadow was enough to make her skin cold and her guts quiver. Qwarath pounded the floor again, bloodying his other knuckles.

"Grup says you speak the truth, tell me where this tomb cave can be found she-man, and I shall hunt for the Heart of Gnarr!"

"Yeah.... like... in the dwarf stronghold?" Jocasta said, her throat suddenly very dry.

"False scent..... and you are hunted foolis cub!" the god thing beside Qwarath roared in outrage. Jocasta had a moment to wonder how she could hear the Troll God speak in the Common tongue before Qwarath wheeled around to glare back at Beren. At the same time he flicked out one of his enormous arms and backhanded Jocasta. She just had time to begin to lift her hand when the blow landed. One of the charms she wore on a necklace burned hot as a spell designed to protect her from a blunt strike fired. It had originally been designed to prevent any of her creditors from cracking her with a kosh but the troll's open handed fist was orders of magnitudes more powerful. The spell disintegrated and the charm flew apart in chunks of glowing metal. Jocasta was lifted off her feet and flung across the cavern out over the abyss. Her flight turned her a half circle so she was upside down when she hit one of the vast stalactites which hung from the ceiling, an ancient core of metal and mineral salt that had resisted the millennia of erosion. By instinct her arms wrapped the stone as it drove the breath from her lungs.

"Beren!" she bleated in panic, as she began to slip down the rock, its surface coated with mineral oil and moisture. She made a last desperate grab and then plunged into the black abyss below.

Beren watched in rapt panic. He didn't know illusion or misdirection, much less real magic. He did know the stuff of the gods, but not these. These were younger than they, but far older than men. What they could do, he didn't know. This one seemed naught but a great shadow. But he knew not to test its limits unless he had to, for Qwarath alone was already likely too much for him. Absently he gripped his shirt over his chest, holding within the cloth his blessed necklace.

All of his contemplation happened in but a moment, however. His main focus was on Jocasta. She was a born actress, but this was a losing proposition.

He had ducked behind further stones, moving silently forward another three strides by a normal man's straight direction. Just at the cusp of the chamber, he hid behind one of the carved thanes. His staff at his back, he slowly slid his axe out for deadly use. Beren steeled himself, hand gripping the haft of his dwarven-crafted weapon. But just before he rose out of his hiding spot, he heard Jocasta's scream at being hit, and to his horror he saw her flying towards the lip of the abyss.

"No!" He cried out, unable to keep himself quiet. Not caring anymore. He stood now, and a cursory glance to his right showed him both Qwarath and the shadow-figure of its primitive deity staring at him. To his horror, the thanes were no longer such as they had been. Their visages had turned orcish or more likely trollish, and their mouths began to move, drum beats flowing from their stone lips in a rhythmic call to their god. Beren didn't care. He watched Jocasta, frozen.

She clung to the stalactite...and slipped.

"Beren!" She cried out desperately.

Qwarath charged him, reaching for him with its apeish arm and roaring a call that Beren swore he understood. As its claw scraped the rock, Beren leaped to the side and did the last thing Qwarath expected, which was to run straight toward the -archtroll. Beren didn't hit him, however. Instead he slid between the arch-troll's bowed legs and then slammed his feet onto the ground, spring boarding himself to do the craziest thing anyone watching could have seen.

Beren leaped off the side of the precipice with no rope or even hope and dived like a hawk, flying towards Jocasta's plummeting form. There was no wind underground, and yet he felt air rushing up at him as he fell, quicker and quicker. Slowly, he managed to get within arms length of a bewildered Jocasta. Beren pulled her close to him. She yelled something but he couldn't hear. Instead he pulled her close and turned in the air, making sure she was above him.

Beren was a lot of things, and while heroic was one of them, he didn't throw his life away recklessly. But he found he really had with her. At least, that's what he thought.

Instead of a stone floor that reduced them to paste, Jocasta and Beren hit something thick and viscous; sticky as well. Like cupping tentacles or strange growths from the rock. Beren and Jocasta hit it with the velocity of a cannon ball, but luckily the material gave as well as it got, bending under their weight and sending them back up a dozen feet, before wobbling back with them along with it.

Jocasta's head popped out of Beren's arms, blinking. "Did you... just try to die with me!?"

Beren blinked, looking around at the jagged walls and the strange, thick string they found themselves attached to. There was very little light down here. The room above had been gloomy but they were now a hundred feet down or further. He looked at her, not really knowing how to answer, so he gave the honest one.

"Yeah?"